


Shireling, Little Hobbiton

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'abondance par La Dame Marciana [10]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Modern Middle Earth, Multi, Other Ships To Be Added, Rating May Change, Rating for Language, Retelling, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, hot fuzz au, mixture of characters from two different fandoms omg pls forgive me, some OOC people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3077570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Police Constable Thorin "Oakenshield" Durinson built himself a reputation in the busy streets of the city of Erebor. And what does he get for it?</p><p>A transfer to the quiet little village of Shireling, Little Hobbiton, where new adventures, hardened criminals, and rigorous living do <i>not</i> await.</p><p>Or do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're Making You Sergeant

**Author's Note:**

> So, I don't actually know what possessed me to come up with a "Hot Fuzz" AU for Bagginshield other than A) I saw BOTFA four times in the cinemas and each viewing tore a little piece of my heart until there was nothing left for me to live with, and B) we all need some happy Bagginshield.
> 
> I find it absolutely strange and just a little bit appalling that I've started this, considering my last Cornetto Trilogy AU fic, ["Dean of the Dead"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1005436), has not been updated in more than a year. But this is my first fic project for 2015, so I'm hoping that I'll somehow be able to finish this one. 
> 
> **DISCLAIMER** : I own pretty much nothing except the gall to even attempt this fic. The story isn't mine, the characters are not mine, and I make no profit from either.
> 
>  **NOT a disclaimer** : "Hot Fuzz" is one of the best movies to ever exist, and I can only HOPE to be as good with this fic as the Cornetto Trilogy team were with their middle child. Also, I don't use a beta or a proofreader, so any mistakes are my own, please do feel free to let me know if you see any so I can correct them.

_“Hello there, Thorin! Saruman White here, your new Inspector. I’m just calling with details of your accommodation. We’ve got you a lovely little cottage on Blue Hill. Look forward to meeting you anon. Cheerio!”_

It’s not as though it’s going to take Thorin forever to pack – the quarters he had chosen to stay in are, in other people’s view, _small_ (he’d always said it was _enough_ ), and he doesn’t have a multitude of belongings anyway. Just the essentials, with just a handful of little extras, and even _they_ have more purposes than just occasional leisure.

As he passes through the corridors with his one suitcase of personals and his potted oak plant, no one greets him, no one congratulates him, no one stops to tell him goodbye. He doesn’t mind. He no longer wonders why.

He stands outside in silence for the car that will take him to the train station.

_“Thorin, Saruman again. One other thing about your cottage – it’s not ready.”_

As the train squeaks and shudders with the speed, Thorin thinks about his destination and does his best to stop being disappointed and angry. He had loved the city of Erebor, had lived there all his life. The hustle and bustle of city life had always suited him; he liked to keep busy, and there is always something going on in the city. He had earned his stripes there, both figuratively and literally. Rose through the ranks of Erebor Met faster than any of its revered veterans can remember anyone else doing. Thorin “Oakenshield” Durinson was _built_ for the city.

And yet here he now is, half-asleep on a bench in a waiting shed for his next train to Little Hobbiton, his potted oak between both his hands and legs to keep it from falling to the floor.

“That’s out in the country,” he had pointed out to Sergeant Groinson, whose strange anchor-shaped gray beard had barely bristled as he confirmed not only that little fact, but also that Thorin was to be transferred with his new position as a Sergeant to Little Hobbiton.

Shireling, Little Hobbiton, to be exact. Out in the country. A quaint, quiet little village.

 _Very_ little.

Thorin supposes he shouldn’t complain though. He’s been there a few times, in the handful of days off he’s allowed himself to take so he could visit her sister and her two boys there. (The last time, of course, had been about 5 years ago.) The village is tidy, accessible, old-fashioned and beautiful.

And quiet.

And _small_.

_Very small._

And out _in the country._

Night has fallen and rain is pouring when he finally arrives at his final train stop. The dirt road that leads to the village is deserted and dark, and the cabbie is silent. Thorin looks out the window, but the “Welcome to Shireling” sign gives him no comfort or cheer, and the gothic cathedral that they zoom past is more than just a little ominous in the cold and dark. The sign pointing to the model village does pique his interest a bit though, but before he can ask about it, the cab slow down and stops at the doors of Thorin’s new coordinates.

The cabbie drops him off at the Nine Hotel, as he’d apparently been instructed to. With no hands available to hold an umbrella, Thorin is drenched by the time he walks into the lobby – though of course, that might have more to do with the fact that he had stood out in the rain, watching the taxi leave, as though the rain might wake him up from a bad dream.

The lobby, much like the rest of the hotel, much like the rest of the village that Thorin remembers, feels rustic and cozy. A motif of dark earth tones and hard, shiny wood dimly lit by a few strategically placed warm pin-lights gives it the illusion of vintage comfort. As if to prove a point, there is a very old man sleeping in a wingback armchair by the fire, the mouth under his powder-white mustache open as he snores softly, his hands clasped in front of him on his rounded stomach.

“It would appear the heavens have opened.”

The woman’s voice, raspy with age, draws Thorin’s attention. He finds the source sitting behind what can only be described as a booth, a solitary lamp lighting whatever she is she’s so very intent on reading or writing. It seems she hasn’t looked up at him at all, and doesn’t seem to have any intention to.

Thorin approaches with a bit of hesitation. “I was hoping to, er, check in.”

“Check in?” The woman echoes, low and slow, sounding ominous and still not looking up at Thorin, “But you’ve _always been here_.”

Thorin is surprised. “Excuse me?” he asks, eyes squinting.

 _Now_ she turns up and sees him. A smile spreads across her face, light reflecting off of her thick glasses. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she offers kindly, “I thought you were my husband. You must be Sergeant Durinson.”

“Yes, I am,” Thorin confirms.

“I’m Joyce Cooper,” says she, “I trust you had a pleasant trip. _Fascist_.”

Thorin’s face falls. He can feel his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle.”I beg your pardon?” he asks, shocked at the immediate hostility from a person he has barely met.

But Joyce Cooper looks down again, the pen in her hand moving as she dictates what she’s reading. “ _System of Government characterized by extreme dictatorship._ Seven across.”

Ah. A crossword puzzle. He can see it is, now that he’s looking past the counter at it. Thorin relaxes.

“Oh, I see,” he says, more than a little relieved, “It’s _fascism._ ”

“Fascism!” Joyce Cooper repeats in awe, “Wonderful.” She takes some time to scribble the word into the boxes provided. “Now, we’ve put you in the Castle Suite. Bernard will escort you up there.” She hands him the keys.

Thorin assumes she means the sleeping man. He doesn’t look as though he’s going to wake up in the next few seconds.  “Well, actually,” he tells her politely, “I could probably make my own way up. _Hag_.”

Mrs Cooper gives him as steely a look as he imagines he must have given her a while ago. “I beg your pardon?”

“ _Evil old woman considered frightful or ugly,_ ” Thorin reads aloud from the crossword puzzle, “It’s 12 down.” He offers a small grin as reassurance that he meant no offense.

“Oh!” sighs Mrs Cooper in understanding, “Bless you.”

And with that, Thorin is given directions to his room. Up the stairs, take a left, go all the way down the corridor.

His “suite” is anything but. The façade of classic grandeur doesn’t go past the lobby, it seems. Barely lit by an old lampshade and a single drop light in the centre, Thorin’s room is small, only about twice the tiny living quarters he’d had back in the city, which isn’t saying much, really. The bed looks comfortable and well-kept, but is barely more than a cot. The walls are covered in a falsely cheerful wallpaper that seems to have been there for decades. There is no TV and no radio, but there is a radiator by the windows, and a corded phone beside the bed.

Still, Thorin is glad to be dry and out of the cold. He shuts the door and puts his jacket on the coat hook.

Sits at the edge of his bed.

Stares out the window at the softly falling rain.

Thorin grabs his jacket, heads out the door.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~


	2. Right, I'm Taking You to the Station!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a very quick hello and a huge thank you to EVERYONE who has stopped by to read and leave me feedback! I appreciate it soooo much more than I can possibly say. :D Here's hoping you enjoy the rest of the fic as it comes!

Almost as if on cue, the rain has stopped. Thorin stops to make a mental note of landmarks before heading east in the hopes of finding a pub. Dis never took him to any watering holes in the village, mainly because she’s not really a drinker herself. As Thorin roams the oddly empty cobblestone streets, he makes a mental note to stop by Dis’ place when he has the time.

He finds the famed Shireling Fountain, where a group of young boys, all wearing gray hoodies, are loitering. He gives them a quick glance, and they turn away hastily, as though they haven’t just been watching him. When he turns back around, he spots what is apparently the only pub in the village.

The bar is a little full, but not unpleasant. The smell of alcohol is in the air, but not overpowering. Mementos and decorations one usually finds in a small-town pub pepper the off-white walls. A jaunty but unfamiliar tune plays on the speakers as customers mill about and chat and drink.

“Pint of lager, please, Mary!” Thorin hears a familiar voice slur as he walks to the bar. A fast look confirms that it’s Kili, youngest of his sister’s two sons. His dark hair is cropped neatly, and his nose is already rather red. Thorin decides not to approach him just yet – he’ll wait until he visits his sister, when Kili is (hopefully) more sober. He walks up to the man behind the bar instead to give Kili his space and privacy as a woman in her 50’s cheerfully confirms his drink.

“Yes, sir, what can I get you?” asks the barman, putting away the rag he’d been using to wipe a glass clean.

Thorin’s not really interested in alcohol anymore. He got it out of his system as he was training in the academy. Keeping off the pints has helped him keep fit, and he’s not sure he has ever really missed the tang of beer in his mouth.

“Could I have a glass of the cranberry juice, please?” he asks after a few seconds’ perusal of the drinks menu.

“Certainly,” says the man, bending to fetch him his drink, “Now, you wouldn’t, by any chance, be the new policeman?” He winks.

“Police _officer_ ,” Thorin corrects, “Yes. I’m Thorin Durinson.”

The man nods as the woman joins him, having served Kili his lager. “I’m Roy Porter,” he introduces himself, putting an arm around her, “This is my wife Mary.”

“Mary,” she echoes, giving Thorin a winning smile, “Welcome to Shireling! If there’s anything you need, just let us know.”

Thorin thanks them. “Could I borrow your newspaper?”

Mary and her husband exchange a short look, and the grin on Mary’s face changes. “It’s not _ours_ , love.”

“We’re not big fans of the local fish wrapper,” Roy agrees, “Are we, Mare? They listed her age as 55.”

“When I’m actually 53!” Mary finishes, chuckling in disbelief, as if it had just happened yesterday.

“Fifty-three,” Roy repeats, as if to drive the point home.

Behind Thorin, Kili groans heavily. Clearly, he’s had quite a good amount to drink already, but doesn’t want to stop yet.

“Pint of lager, please, Mary,” Thorin hears Kili call again.

“Right you are, my love!” Mary replies, the same thing she had said to him earlier.

Thorin swigs from his cranberry juice.

It needs sugar.

\-----

Half an hour later, and Thorin has only _just_ reached page five of the newspaper; he reads literally every word, of course. Information is _essential_. It’s as he gets to an article about an approaching event that the village is starting to prepare for that he hears laughter.

 _Young_ laughter. _Juvenile_ , even.

Thorin looks around the bar, and for the first time realizes how youthful a good majority of the patrons’ faces are. His eyes land on a sign by the door, a sign _every_ pub always has.

_IT IS ILLEGAL TO SERVE ALCOHOL TO PERSONS UNDER 18._

He tries to stop himself. He honestly, _really_ does. It’s his first night in the village. His first day on the job isn’t until tomorrow. He’s here just to pass the time, relax a little.

…The law is the law, though. And Thorin didn’t earn his reputation in Erebor because he put off doing the right thing.

He closes the newspaper, his hands clapping together. He approaches one table, where a long-haired blond, a brown-tressed boy with a mullet and a curly redhead are chatting.

“Excuse me,” he says firmly, pointing at the redhead and using the full weight of his already deep voice.

The ginger looks up. “What?” he asks with an air of defiance.

Thorin holds up his badge for all at the table to see. “When’s your birthday?”

The redhead shrugs. “Twenty-second of February,” he replies.

“What year?” Thorin asks, emphasizing the final word.

“ _Every year_ ,” sasses the ginger.

Thorin jabs his thumb towards the door, his other hand still holding the badge. “Get out,” he orders the group.

Another table now. Four boys, all looking just _this_ side of prepubescent. “When’s your birthday?” he asks, pointing at one boy, who seems to be this gaggle’s ringleader.

“Eighth of May,” answers the boy in a pitchy voice, “1969.” He hesitates on the year.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “You’re forty-six?” he asks sarcastically.

“Yeah?” says the teenager, as if Thorin is going to believe him.

Thorin points towards the door with his free hand. “Get out.”

His next target is a group of three standing by one of the structural posts. A tall, skinny boy with a bowl haircut, too many freckles and his jacket closed all the way up to his neck is in Thorin’s crosshairs.

Thorin flashes his badge again, pointing at the boy. “When’s your birthday?”

The only response he gets is a high-pitched groan of fright. “OUT,” Thorin commands, irritated now.

“Is there a problem, officer?” asks Roy, coming up behind him.

“Yes, there is, Mister Porter,” Thorin answers in a level tone as he turns to Roy, who is now joined by Mary, “It would appear a number of your patrons are under age.”

Roy and Mary share a look of understanding. “Well, a few of them _may_ be a month or two south of proper,” Roy admits, “But if they’re in _here_ , it stops them getting into trouble out _there_.”

Thorin’s brows furrow. There’s a point there, but…

“Yeah, the way we see it,” Roy continues, “It’s all for the greater good!”

“The greater good!” Mary repeats good-naturedly.

“Well, that’s as may be,” Thorin concedes, “but the law’s the law, and they’ll have to go.”

“…Oh,” Roy and Mary say in unison, wearing twin looks of defeat on their faces.

In less than 10 minutes, the pub is cleared of its under-aged patrons, who leave grumbling and muttering in annoyance. The bar is suddenly quiet, with only a handful of customers left. Thorin picks his paper back up.

“Another cranberry juice?” Roy asks, although he’s far from genial now, his arms crossed in front of him. Mary is standing the same way.

“I’m fine, thank you,” replies Thorin contentedly.

\-----

Another 20 or so minutes later finds Thorin following a tipsy Kili out the door. He sticks to his resolution to leave him alone for now, although he wonders if he’ll be telling Kili’s mother about this.

Thorin walks to the fountain, tosses in a coin for luck (not that he’s a big believer in things like that, but it’s harmless). As he watches the coin fall, he notices a gold plaque bolted into the stone of the fountain.

**FOUNTAIN RESTORATION COMPLETED IN 1993**

**With Thanks To**

A list of first initials and last names follow. He sees the names of the Coopers, who run the Nine Hotel, and the Porters, who run the pub. The rest are as yet unfamiliar.

Thorin’s attention is drawn by a strange scratching and clanking sound behind him. Kili is drunkenly trying to get into his car, but can’t seem to fit the key into the door.

Oh _no_. Thorin had told himself he’d leave Kili be for now, but…

He clears his throat. Kili looks up, eyes half-open. He makes no sign that he recognizes Thorin. Better; there will be less embarrassment if he can’t remember this.

“I hope you’re not planning on driving that,” Thorin says.

“…No,” Kili answers. Thorin isn’t so convinced, but Kili walks away on unsteady feet.

Thorin returns to the plaque, reading the names and trying to commit them to memory; it will make it much easier for him to remember who’s who when he finally meets them. As he reaches the end of the list – “Mr A Treacher” – he notices something else on the stone.

Graffiti. A symbol of some sort, spray-painted in red. It looks almost like a skewed number nine, although why that is, Thorin ca—

The roar of a car starting, and then the screech of skidding tires alerts Thorin to trouble, and he looks just in time to see the back of Kili’s car headed _right for him_.

He ducks and rolls out of the way just in time. It crashes into the fountain with minor but loud impact. It sounded to Thorin as though the brake lights had shattered, and some of the stone might have cracked. He rushes quickly to the driver’s door, finds Kili conscious, drunk, but unhurt. He pulls him bodily out of the vehicle.

“Right,” Thorin huffs aggressively, “I’m taking you to the station.” A beat, and then he realizes. “…Where is it?”

It takes a while, but Kili manages to point Thorin in the general direction of the police station. Thorin takes him by the scruff of his collar and walks him there, waylaid only by the redhead from the bar peeing against a wall. Thorin takes him, and several of the juveniles still loitering, down to the station as well.

Once there, he is greeted at the front desk by another officer, whose white hair and beard can do nothing to hide the utter confusion on his face at the sudden influx of people at this late hour. The tag on his uniform identifies him as “D. Kettles.” Thorin shows him his badge.

“Thorin Durinson,” reads the officer at the desk, “Oh! When did _you_ start?”

“Tomorrow,” Thorin answers plainly, pocketing his badge again.

“Oh,” chuckles Officer Kettles, “Well, I see you’ve already arrested half the village.”

“Not exactly,” Thorin murmurs, and Kettles laughs again, turning a grin at Kili.

“You in for the night?” he asks Kili, who nods and smirks almost proudly, “Go on, four’s free.”

With a silent chuckle, Kili wanders off towards the cells. It’s Thorin’s turn to be confused.

“Hey now, I need to speak to him,” Thorin tells Kettles, pointing after Kili.

“Nah, he’ll be no use ‘til the morning,” assures Kettles with a dismissive wave.

Thorin understands now that Kili’s inebriated forays into the station may not be a one-off situation after all. “I see,” he says to Kettles, who is eyeing the young crowd behind Thorin.

“You really want to, er, process _all_ this lot?” he asks Thorin, his voice dropping so that he won’t be heard by the others, “My pen’s running out.”

Thorin is nothing if not always prepared. “No problem,” he states, taking out _two_ pens from inside his jacket pockets.

The processing takes more than an hour. Thorin receives no help from Kettles, who seems to be the only officer on duty in the station. Thorin takes the time to get every last important detail and statistic from each of his young perps, and takes their mugshots himself. His left hand, still a bit stiff from when he had once been stabbed in it by a man dressed as Father Christmas, hurts after all the writing, and when he finally goes home that night, Thorin takes some time to release some of the tension that had built up in it.

His left hand had always seemed strangely special to him. It had always looked and felt different, and even his own mother had noted how his left hand somehow did not look similar to his right. As a child, Thorin had taken it to heart, this seeming strangeness of his left hand. When he looks down at it these days, Thorin cringes, but only from the memory of the pain. The switch knife had gone right through his palm and out the back of it, and when it had healed over, the skin came together and left a scar that resembled an oak leaf.

He had put his hand up to stop his partner at the time from being stabbed through the back by that costumed lunatic. It was an impulsive move, one he only slightly regrets. The scar had earned him the nickname “Oakenshield” among his few friends at the Met, and on one birthday, Dis had bought him that little potted oak as a gift. That was years ago, and Thorin had tended to it as if it were a son. Some even said that he cared it about that plant almost as much as he cared about his work. And he wasn’t exactly deaf to not hear rumors that the reason he had never been seen with a girlfriend (or boyfriend, but Thorin never talks about that) was because of the plant.

On his back on the bed, ready for sleep wearing only pyjama bottoms, Thorin turns to his precious potted oak. He had placed it on the bedside table, near the window, so it can get some sun. He’s not sure if he’s imagining things, but Thorin is almost sure the plant shrugs nonchalantly at him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm, yes, on the incredibly off-chance that it went over someone's head, "D. Kettles" is in fact Dori :D


End file.
